


All That's Left

by Anonymous



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, White Court of Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Harry Dresden is born a girl.Lord Raith takes an interest.Later, so does John Marcone.
Relationships: Harry Dresden & Thomas Raith, Harry Dresden/Johnny Marcone
Comments: 28
Kudos: 50
Collections: anonymous





	1. Chapter One: Harry

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:  
> Hi! *waves*  
> Saw a prompt about Harry being female and Raith taking her in because he doesn't see her as a threat on the Dresden files kinkmeme (which appears to be defunct, sadly, anyone got news on that?) and couldn't resist.  
> POV will alternate. Explicit warning will apply to later chapters.  
> This is looking like it'll be a long one, just fyi. I have vague plans through Cold Days, although we might skip some things to get there. 
> 
> Content warnings: Past rape/non-con/sexual abuse, including of a minor; White Court vampires (in general, yes, but also specifically Lord Raith); mind control a la White Court; past child abuse; PTSD. Please let me know if I'm missing anything.

When my brother and I run, we run to John Marcone. 

Then again, we don’t so much run as saunter seductively into a car worth more than most houses. Thomas is White Court, after all, and I’m--

I don’t know what I am. But Lord Raith has seen to it that I can saunter with the best of them.

The point is, when Thomas and I leave Lord Raith’s house, we head straight for Gentleman Johnny’s office. 

We’re well aware that the car we take is bugged, so we don’t speak. I could hex the bugs, of course, but that might take out the car, and there’s little doubt that would be the end of our escape attempt. 

If my hand creeps into my brother’s on the way there, neither of us comments on it.

The receptionist doesn’t want to let us in. I can understand why. I have a bit of a reputation, even on the leash that Raith has kept me on, and Thomas just screams trouble. 

We’re both dressed from last night’s trip to Zero, too, which means that anyone less professional than this woman would be calling the cops on us for looking like prostitutes. 

I don’t like that thought, so I ignore it.

“Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Marcone?” she asks. 

Thomas turns up the charm, leaning on her desk and flexing his arms. I swallow bile as the familiar touch of White Court magic fills the air. “No. But he’ll want to see us.”

The receptionist-- Valerie, her name tag says-- swallows for another reason. But she says, “I can’t allow you to see Mr. Marcone without an appointment.”

“Hey, Val,” I say. She tears her gaze away from Thomas, which takes an impressive amount of willpower. “This is a nice building. Sure be a shame if it caught fire.”

It’s not subtle, but hey, if it works…

Her face pales. “You wouldn’t.”

I smile at her. It’s the smile Lara taught me after the first time her father-- 

It’s the smile Lara taught me when I was twelve and half out of my mind with pain and power. It’s the smile that’s less of a smile than a baring of teeth. It’s the White Court smile.

It’s a predator’s smile. 

Valerie picks up the phone and hits a key. 

“Yes, Mr. Hendricks, I know he’s busy, but…” she glances at us. Thomas gives her his best toothpaste ad smile. “He has visitors.”

There’s a pause. 

“Yes, sir.” She hangs up. “Mr. Hendricks will fetch you in a few minutes.”

We wait. My leg bounces frantically. 

At fourteen minutes, Thomas reaches over and presses down on my thigh. My heel hits the floor and stays there. 

He’s the one person on the planet I would let do that. I would incinerate anyone else. For him, I just scowl.

“Calm down, Harry,” he murmurs. There’s no fake casualness in it, which is the only reason I don’t shove him away from me. He’s as on edge as I am. “It’s a test.”

“We should have gone to the fae,” I say, not for the first time. 

“You really think what they’d do to us would be any better than Father?”

I scowl, but don’t argue.

John Marcone’s bodyguard comes for us at the twenty-seven minute mark. His gun isn’t drawn, but his hand is on it. 

“No weapons,” Hendricks says. He’s looking mostly at me but avoiding eye contact. He’s also not staring at my breasts or the bite marks on my neck, which earns him a point that’s cancelled out by his next request. “Dresden, leave the staff, blasting rod, and jewelry.”

“No.”

Hendricks grunts. “Then no audience with the boss.” He turns to go. 

Thomas squeezes my shoulder once. 

“Fine.” I start pulling off my rings. It’s made more difficult by the way my hands are shaking, but I manage. 

I keep the pentacle on. Hendricks doesn’t comment. I’m not sure I would take it off even if Thomas asked me to. 

It’s not a weapon. It’s not useful. I don’t need it. It’s just the only thing I have left, besides Thomas. 

“If you mess up with my stuff, I’ll make you regret it,” I tell Valerie, who nods a few times too many.

When I’m as unarmed as I’m ever going to be, Hendricks turns and leads us to the elevator. I try to think calm, tech-friendly thoughts. Raith had taken broken tech out on me enough times I have practice, but the lights still flicker a few times. We get to the top floor without the elevator deciding to crash to the ground, so I take it as a win. 

Thomas’ hand brushes against mine as we step into John Marcone’s office. It’s a weakness we can’t afford, but I let it pass. He knows that as well as I do. 

Marcone looks like I expected him to-- dangerous. His eyes, in the brief second we make eye contact for, are money-green. He assesses our stances, our outfits (or lack thereof), and nods once. 

“Mr Raith,” he greets. “Ms. Dresden. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I open my mouth but can’t find the words. My brother steps in smoothly. “We would pledge our loyalty to you.”

Hendricks shifts. Marcone betrays no surprise. “Why?”

Neither of us answer. Me because I can’t, Thomas because he won’t. 

“I am hardly going to go to war with the White Court if you two can’t even give me a good reason to.”

My fists clench. I would rather die than explain the whole truth. 

Thomas says, “My father would have killed her.”

My eyes snap towards him. He doesn’t meet them. 

Marcone doesn’t so much as blink. If I hadn’t grown up surrounded by White Court vampires, I might have been unnerved by his impassiveness. 

“Why?” he asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” I snap, glaring at Thomas. “What matters is that it’s you or the fae, and if you don’t hurry up, we’re going to the fae.”

“If you were going to, you would have.” Marcone folds his hands neatly. “Let me soulgaze you before I make my decision.”

“If I say no?”

“Then I will ask you to explain why, exactly, you are here.”

That’s not an option. I jut my chin out and meet Marcone’s eyes. 

Marcone has the soul of a soldier, of a machine, of a tiger. 

He’s a predator. 

He’s a match for Raith. 

I know, then, that Thomas and I made the right choice.

I come out of the soul gaze abruptly, but I hold Marcone’s eyes. He doesn’t visibly react to whatever he saw, just nods to himself. 

“I could use a woman like you,” he says. “And a man like you, Mr. Raith. I can have contracts within the hour. What are you expecting out of this arrangement?”

Thomas doesn’t need to look at me. “Protection.”

“I had gathered as much. What else? Salary expectations, healthcare?”

I almost laugh. We were fugitives throwing ourselves upon his nonexistent mercy and he was worried about healthcare?

I hadn’t planned for that. So I ask, “What do you want from us?”

“A great many things,” Marcone says. “But I suppose you wish for specifics?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “You both will be wonderful combat assets. I have no end of uses for a powerful wizardess and a Raith. Wards. Intimidation. Combat. So on.”

I can live with that. I say, “We want an apartment.”

“Certainly.”

“And a car,” Thomas says. I nod. The one we have will be worse than useless with all the tracking software.

“That can be arranged.”

“And we’re not fucking anyone,” I say. Thomas twitches. 

I wait for that to be a dealbreaker. If it is, at least we tried. 

“Your sexual activities are your own business,” Marcone says, drier than the Sahara. 

That’s not a yes. I tell him as much.

Marcone studies my face then says, “Ms. Dresden, I swear to you on Chicago that, in my employ, no one will force you or Mr. Raith into any sexual encounters that you do not desire. Is that sufficient?”

“Yeah.”

“Wonderful.” He folds his hands once more. “Ms. Gard should have the contracts finished momentarily.”

We sit in silence for five minutes. My leg bounces no matter how many times Thomas flicks it. 

Sigrun Gard walks in with contracts. Thomas and I read through them carefully. 

They’re about what you’d expect, from a document asking you to sell your soul. 

We sign. 

What else could we do?

“Excellent.” Marcone smiles. 

It’s a predator’s smile. 

“You’ll begin in my service by investigating a series of murders in which people’s hearts have exploded out of their chest,” he says.

“Just how I wanted to spend my Friday,” I mutter, and his smile widens just a little. 


	2. Chapter Two: Harry//John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two slashes denotes a POV change.

Marcone gives us the address of a dead man, one hundred in cash, and sends us on our merry way with Hendricks as our chaperone. Marcone’s bodyguard stays in the car.

Valerie didn’t mess with my stuff. Having my staff back in my hands makes the pressure in my chest loosen.

Not by much, though, because the push-up bra I’m wearing is definitely not meant to be worn this long. 

Everything I own is either on me or back at Chateau de Raith. This is the only bra I have. 

Want life put in perspective? Run away from the only life you can remember wearing clothing intended for a club known for good cocaine and better sex.

Thomas keeps his peace until we’re inside the crime scene. No cops-- Marcone must have paid them off. Then, “Marcone wants to fuck you.”

I glance at him, then bend down to study the bodies. “I don’t think he wants anything. Except maybe complete control.”

“Lust vampire, remember? I can tell.”

I think about it. “Think he’s good in bed?”

Thomas snorts. “If you like being scared out of your mind while…”

He trails off. I keep my eyes locked on the dead bodies and try to remember how to breathe. 

It shouldn’t be this hard. Breathing, that is. Some bastard went and stole the air. 

“Hey,” Thomas says. “Hey. Harry.”

He reaches for my shoulder. 

I step away and crouch down by the other body. “So. Magic.”

Mercifully, my brother allows the subject change. “Looks like it.”

“Do we know who the dead people are?” He probably would have said if he knew them, but Marcone gave us no names.

“No.” Thomas sighs. “They died after having sex, if that helps.”

Thomas isn’t always useful, but when sex is involved, he’s a regular Sherlock.

“Not really.” I stand up, having learned nothing from the bodies that I hadn’t already guessed. “The killer is using thaumaturgy.”

“That’s the object one, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you do this?”

I have to think about it. “Probably. It would take everything I had to kill one person like this, though. I’m not sure how someone managed two.”

“Got it.” 

We stand there for a minute, words left unsaid hovering in the air. 

“Marcone isn’t going to be able to stop him,” Thomas says at last. “Even with what Mom did, he could destroy Marcone’s empire.”

There’s no need to clarify who “him” is. 

“I know,” I say. “But we can always go to the Nevernever. And Lara can stop him, if Marcone can hold him off for long enough.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You hit him that hard?” His voice is skeptical. I can’t blame him. I hadn’t thought it was possible either.

“I thought it was my death curse,” I murmur. “I gave it everything I had.”

Thomas looks away. 

I don’t remember much of what preceded Thomas dragging me out of Zero and back to Chateau de Raith. Just Lord Raith screaming. Just the satisfaction that I wouldn’t go down without a fight. Not anymore.

We’ve had our plan ready for years. It just took me fighting back for Thomas to decide to trigger it. 

“Should’ve gone with the fae,” I say, once again. “Then we wouldn’t be relying on your sister and a mobster.”

Thomas grunts. It’s an old argument that he won a long time ago, but we’re siblings, which means I have to bring it up at every available opportunity. “We should search the apartment.”

We do. All we find is a suspicious amount of cash and a gun. Thomas claims the gun on the grounds that he can shoot better than I can, an argument I grudgingly concede to. I keep the cash on the grounds that I found it, an argument he rolls his eyes to.

Hendricks is waiting when we emerge from the apartment. He doesn’t say anything as he drives us back to Marcone’s office, which is more than fine with me. 

Marcone doesn’t react to my spiel about thaumaturgy. When I’m finished, he asks, “Anything else?”

“Well, if we knew who the dead people were, that might make life easier.”

He turns his attention to the papers on his desk. “Mr Hendricks will show you to your apartment.”

There’s nothing else to say.

//

“You’re thinking with your dick, John,” Nathan says, closing the office door behind him. 

I place the paper I was reading on my desk. “Beg pardon?”

“You’re thinking with your dick.”

Hendricks is the only man in the world who can speak to me this way. I usually value his honesty. In this case, however, it’s rather insulting. I say, “The two of them may be attractive, but I’m hardly--”

“Not like that,” he says, as close to exasperated as he ever gets. “You’re thinking with your mob boss dick.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Nathan.”

“You know full well we can’t take the White Court. But your mob boss dick got hard at the thought of flipping the vamps the bird. You’re going to get people killed, John. Our people.”

Ah. The metaphor may be crude, but Nathan’s worries are not unfounded. 

I fold my hands. “Nathan, do you know what I saw when I soulgazed Ms. Dresden?”

I wait for the shake of his head to answer. “Power.”

Harry Dresden’s soul was a series of battles. Many had been against the head of the White Court. I chose not to think of some of the ways she had had to fight back. 

That wasn’t mine to know.

“So?” Nathan asks. “If she could fight the White Court on her own, the two of them wouldn’t be here.”

“So I tracked down someone who was at Zero last night, which is where Ms. Dresden and Mr. Raith were.”

Nathan frowns. “And?”

“And,” I say, “it seems that Ms. Dresden lit Lord Raith on fire. Lord Raith then went home.”

Nathan is many things. Intelligent is one of them. He pieces together the implications. “He didn’t feed?”

I shake my head. 

“Huh.” He contemplates that, then asks the question I was dreading. “Why did Dresden light him on fire?”

“That is not mine to say.” I know that he’ll put these pieces together too, but at the very least I did not outright give away Ms. Dresden’s secrets.

His eyes flare with realization that quickly turns to anger. “Oh.”

I elect not to acknowledge him. “In addition, the White Court tries to be subtle. I doubt they will outright go to war over two people.”

I pause. “Also, Ms. Lara Raith has contacted me asking for an alliance.”

Nathan glares at me. “You couldn’t have just said that?”

I allow myself to smile. His glare intensifies. 

I go back to reading reports. He settles into his usual chair and picks up the book he had been reading earlier. 

It’s as peaceful as our lives get until someone blasts the door down.


	3. Chapter Three: John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch me procrastinating everything to write a very specific au.

Nathan goes for his gun. The wizard gestures and the pistol goes flying across the room. 

I don’t bother drawing my own weapon.

"Wizard,” I greet, gesturing to Nathan to stand down. “To what do we owe the… pleasure?”

“You,” he growled, “have Harriet Dresden.”

“Ms. Dresden signed a contract pledging loyalty to me, yes.”

I doubt he’s working for the White Court, but he doesn’t seem friendly. 

“I need to speak to her.”

“I don’t like being given demands,” I inform him. 

He lifts his staff and points it at me. “I need to speak with her.”

I’ve heard stories of what Harry Dresden can do with a staff. Since I’m fond of my office building-- and my insurance premiums-- I don’t outright refuse. Instead, I ask, “Why?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Considering that she’s mine, now, yes I do.”

The wizard’s eyes blaze. “She ain’t anyone’s.”

“I have a contract that says otherwise.” 

The staff glows.

I say, “I’m not telling you where she is unless it benefits me. If you know who I am, then you would know I don’t jeopardize my people for no reason.”

The wizard evaluates me, then lowers his staff. I do not wince as it leaves burn marks on the carpet. Having met Harry Dresden, I am well aware that if I get off with some light property damage it’ll be a miracle.

“She should be with the White Council.”

“She made her decision.”

“I want to speak with her.”

“Why?”

He hesitates. “I knew her mother.”

I know that this is more than that. This is the kind of anger you only get around family or those who are as good as. 

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and dial the apartment I had set up for Dresden and Raith. 

The wizardess picks up on the third ring. “Yeah?” 

“You have a visitor,” I tell her. 

Wariness suffuses her voice. “Raith?”

“No.” I glance at the wizard in front of my desk. “A wizard. He didn’t give his name. But he thinks you belong with the White Council.”

The line crackles with static. I give Dresden a moment to calm down, and then add, “He says he knew your mother.”

There’s a brief scuffling sound on the other end of the line before Raith’s voice, hard and cold, asks, “What’s his name, Marcone?”

I ruminate, briefly, on the possibility of forcing him to call me sir. 

A thought for another time. 

“What’s your name?” I ask the wizard. “They’re not deciding until they know.”

He scowls. “Ebenezar McCoy.”

I relay that information to Raith. 

Silence. Then, “We’ll be there in twenty.”

He hangs up. 

It’s a long twenty minutes. 

Raith and Dresden walk through my office door in tandem. It’s quite the entrance, with the White Court vampire radiating confidence and the wizardess radiating fury, even if the overall effect isn’t as attention-grabbing as it had been when the both of them were barely dressed.

I lean back in my chair and watch as both of them try to step in front of the other. Dresden wins, shouldering Raith aside. She faces McCoy with her shoulders squared.

“What do you want?”

“Hello, Harry.” McCoy offers a hand, which she ignores. “I came to ask you to join the White Council.”

She snorts. “Little late for that.”

“A mortal, no matter how organized he is, can’t offer you the protection which the Council could.”

“I’ve met the Council,” Dresden says. “I’m not interested.”

Something flashes across McCoy’s face. “Justin DuMorne is not representative of--”

A real snarl rips out of Raith’s throat at the name. 

Dresden smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, Justin is representative of a lot of things. And he taught me enough. I’m not interested, McCoy.”

McCoy nods slowly. “Very well.”

He pauses in the doorway. “Maggie was stubborn too, you know. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

“If you wanted to save me, you should have come along a long time ago,” Dresden says. 

McCoy closes the door softly. Somehow the click manages to echo in the ensuing silence.

Hendricks crosses the room to pick up his pistol. Raith sits down in one of my chairs without asking. Dresden collapses into the chair beside him and takes a deep breath.

“Congratulations, Marcone. You just survived a conversation with a member of the Senior Council.”

Ah. 

I suppose I should count myself lucky.

“Do you know what he wanted?” I ask. 

“Besides ‘saving me’? No.”

I’m pretty sure Dresden’s telling the truth. “And who is Justin DuMorne?”

Raith’s eyes slide from grey to silver. Dresden’s hands tighten around her staff. 

“No one important,” she says. 

“I will remind you that you agreed to tell the truth to any questions asked in section 15, subsection 2 of the contracts you signed. Should I have Ms. Gard add in a magical enforcement mechanism?”

Raith and Dresden exchange a look that I cannot read. 

Dresden says, “He was my mentor.”

“And what else was he?”

Her jaw flexes. Raith’s hand has settled on her thigh, I note. “He was a monster.”

“I see.” I will not press. Not yet. 

There will be time to prise apart Harry Dresden’s past. There will be time to discover what these two mean to each other. 

I have nothing but time, after all. The contracts were quite clear. 

“If that’s all,” Raith says, standing.

I incline my head. “Failing other visits from members of the Senior Council, that will be all.”

I do not, no matter what Nathan may imply in the next few minutes, watch Dresden’s ass as she walks away.

If I had, I would have observed that she looks much better in baggy jeans than she had in what was clearly the trappings of the White Court.

“Justin DuMorne,” Gard muses. “There’s a name I haven’t heard for a while. He’s a Warden with quite the reputation.”

“Ms. Dresden called him a monster,” I offer. 

“He had an apprentice,” she says. “Her name was Elaine. She was executed for practicing dark magic. DuMorne was eventually deemed innocent.”

Her tone tells me she does not believe this. 

“Dresden referred to him in the past tense,” I say.

Gard tilts her head. “Interesting. I was under the impression he had not yet been declared dead.”

Interesting indeed. 


	4. Chapter Four: Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if updates multiple times a day are annoying or welcomed, please. This story has latched on hard and I write when I'm procrastinating, so... this might be a pattern.   
> Thanks for reading, hope you like it, and I love hearing from y'all.

When we get back to the apartment, I finish putting up wards. Thomas watches but says nothing. 

I cast every protective spell I can remember on the door. Then I move onto the windows. If anyone or anything I don’t invite in tries to get inside, they’ll burn.

Justin taught me a lot of things. One of them was how to throw up a hell of a ward. 

I try to forget most of the other things he taught me. 

Eventually, I run out of things to enchant, and Thomas forces me to sit down before I fall over. He makes me a sandwich with angry, tense movements and stares me down until I eat it. 

Thomas gets quiet when he gets angry. It was the only way he could survive. Lord Raith would have killed him otherwise.

I stop talking too, with the addition of throwing myself into my magic until my hands stop shaking.

We sit at the table and don’t talk until the sun goes down. I’m the one to break the silence. 

“Do you need to feed?”

Thomas shakes his head. “I fed at Zero. I’m good for a while.”

I nod. I’ll have to take his word for it-- I don’t remember.

I’m good at that. 

My hands are still shaking. 

There’s a storm rolling in. 

I wake up screaming for Thomas. He bursts in in his boxers with the stolen gun in hand. The roll of thunder which follows makes me flinch.

When he sees no threats, Thomas flicks the safety of the gun on and places it on the nightstand. He waits for me to speak. When I do, my voice is hoarse. 

“Stay with me?”

He doesn’t respond, just slides under the covers on the other side of the bed. We fall asleep like children, facing each other with our hands tangled together. 

I don’t wake up until morning. 

The sound of the Imperial March wakes me up. Thomas just grumbles inaudibly, so I reach over him and answer the phone.

“What?”

“Good morning to you too, Ms. Dresden,” Marcone says. “There’s been another murder. Same method as before.”

I put the phone on speaker and elbow Thomas until he sits up, groaning. “Where?” I ask Marcone.

Marcone’s voice is a shade cooler than it had been when he says, “I’ll send a car.”

He hangs up. 

I blink. “What crawled up his ass?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Thomas stretches and yawns. “Maybe the fact that I’m in your bed?”

My face flushes. “Oh. He thinks--?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” I do my best not to think through the implications and roll out of bed. If it keeps him away from me, I guess it’s not a bad thing. “There was another murder.”

“Great. Don’t suppose he said who bit it this time?”

“Nope.”

“Great,” Thomas repeats. 

He doesn’t ask about last night, and I don’t tell him anything. 

He probably already knows.

The driver is someone we haven’t met, yet. I nickname him Spike immediately. He doesn’t speak, which is fine with me.

Thomas and I are searching the dead woman’s apartment for any form of identification when the police walk in.

There are guns on us immediately. Thomas raises his hands slowly.

“You’re under arrest for trespassing on a crime scene,” one of the officers says. Her name tag reads  _ Sergeant Murphy _ . “Drop the… the staff and put your hands on your head.”

I follow orders.

“I have a gun,” Thomas says calmly. “It’s in an ankle holster.”

_ When did he have time to get an ankle holster? _ , I wonder, slightly hysterically. 

Murphy gestures to one of the men beside her and he grabs the stolen gun. Thomas stays stock still, probably more for my sake than his own. 

Thomas isn’t bulletproof, but he’s a hell of a lot closer to it than I am. 

The problem comes when they shove me against a wall to search me. I go as still as a deer in the middle of the road and start drawing in magic. 

I’m no one’s victim. Not anymore.

“Harry,” Thomas hisses. “Don’t. It’s okay. I’m here. We’ll get out of this.” 

The man with a hand on the small of my back snorts. I grit my teeth and let the gathered magic go. 

I regret doing so as the hand on my back slides down to touch my ass. 

Murphy starts to yell something, but I slam my elbow backwards and into the cop’s nose. He swears, jerking away from me before tackling me to the floor. 

I go still once more as a body presses down on me. Hands are on me, sliding down my body, and I stay perfectly still. They handcuff me and take my blasting rod, and I don’t fight. I can hear Thomas cursing up a storm, but it’s distant now. 

Everything is distant, now. 

Distance is familiar. Distance is safe. 

Raith never allowed me to escape like this. 

I don’t fight the handcuffs, don’t fight being dragged out of the apartment and into a police car, don’t fight when they take me into the police station. 

I say two words the whole time I’m in police custody. 

“Call Marcone.”

Someone must call Marcone at some point, because a lawyer in an Armani suit shows up and springs me on some technicality. 

“She assaulted a cop,” the officer who’d been trying to interrogate me says. 

“Sergeant Murphy has informed us that the cop assaulted her first.”

They argue, and the lawyer must win, because the handcuffs come off. 

Thomas is waiting outside, his eyes too silver for comfort. His shoulders sag when he sees me, although I’m probably the only person on the planet who could tell.

“Don’t speak,” the lawyer orders us, her heels clicking as she strides towards the station doors. 

No problem there. 

She slides into an idling limo. Thomas and I glance at each other, wary.

Marcone’s voice drifts out of the vehicle. “Ms. Dresden, Mr. Raith, please do get in. We need to discuss some things."

We get in. 


	5. Chapter Five: John

If I abandoned my work for every one of my people who got themselves arrested, I would never get anywhere. However, this situation is different from most.

Not only had my contacts in the police failed to prevent Sergeant Murphy and her officers from investigating the apartment until Dresden and Raith were finished, they had allowed them to be arrested. In addition, they had allowed Dresden to be assaulted. 

No one harmed my people like that. No one. Especially not those of my people who had fled the White Court for my protection. 

“Her name was Linda Randall, and she was a prostitute working for the Velvet Room,” I inform Dresden and Raith. “We are on our way to ask Ms. St. Claire some questions about her.”

Dresden laughs. “You’re just going to walk onto Red Court turf and ask about their business?”

“Yes. Is there a problem with that?”

“Only if you don’t want to wind up dead in a ditch,” Dresden says. “What, the White Court not enough danger for you?”

Hendricks, who said something very similar when I informed him of my plans, stays quiet. 

He doesn’t like Dresden. That’s a problem to be addressed at a later point in time.

I can hardly inform these two that Lara Raith asked me to investigate Bianca St. Claire, so I say, “As long as we’re polite, I do not anticipate difficulties.”

Dresden snorts but says nothing else. 

Some of the distance has faded from her eyes. I welcome the change. It was disconcerting to see someone so defiant so subdued.

She leans her head against the window and closes her eyes. I turn my own eyes to my phone and ignore Raith’s hard stare. 

Of course Dresden had to come with a lust vampire. 

If she wasn’t a challenge on every level, though, I wouldn’t want her. 

I’ll get her out of my system eventually. There’s even a prostitute who works for me who possesses a passing resemblance to the wizardess that I can summon this evening, if I feel so inclined. For now, I’ll just have to focus on the task at hand. 

Bianca St. Claire looks lovely enough on the surface. From what Gard has told me, it’s quite the illusion.

“Gentleman Marcone,” she greets, extending her hand. I raise it to my lips and do not shudder at the strange, rubbery sensation of her flesh. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Business, unfortunately.” I release her hand carefully.

St. Claire’s eyes slide to Dresden, the only one of my employees who had been allowed to join me. “A gift? How lovely.”

Dresden’s nostrils flare. “No. We’re here about Linda Randall.”

“A shame.” St. Claire circles behind Dresden. I do not react. “I’ve heard stories, you know.”

Dresden’s face smooths itself into blankness in a way which I am rapidly growing to detest. “Linda Randall. Talk.”

“Or what, little wizardess?”

“Or else we will have missed a valuable chance to cooperate,” I intercede smoothly, not trusting Dresden not to start a war if left to her own devices. “You see, one of mine is dead-- and two of yours are. And I, for one, would like to find the responsible party.”

St. Claire smiles. “What makes you think I would?”

“The knowledge that a woman such as yourself does not stand for infringement upon her territory.”

“Ah.” She shrugs. “What is a whore or two, to me?”

“They were people,” Dresden growls. 

“They were expendable,” St. Claire retorts. “And slaves speak when spoken to, wizardess.”

Dresden emits a snarl which is almost identical to the noise Raith made at the name Justin DuMorne. Before she can speak, I lay a gentle hand on her arm. She tenses but doesn’t shake it off, at least. 

I say, “Ms. St. Claire, I would consider myself in your debt if you could give me a lead.”

“Ah.” She trails her fingers across the table. “There it is. Your debt is noted, Gentleman Marcone. I would check in on Mr. and Mrs. Beckitt, if I were you.”

My face reveals nothing. I nod and turn to leave, my hand still on Dresden’s arm. “You have my thanks.”

“Oh, Gentleman Marcone?” she calls. 

I pause in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Do be careful with the kine,” St. Claire says, gesturing at Dresden. “I hear that one bites.”

Dresden’s smile makes me think of barely contained forest fires. 

“So who’re the Beckitts?” Dresden asks. In the driver’s seat, I see Hendricks’ head whip around.

I say, “I’m invoking the confidentiality clause of your contracts. This does not leave the vehicle.”

I wait for Dresden and Raith to nod before explaining who Amanda Beckitt is to me. Their faces remain blank throughout. 

I tell them she’s dead. In every way that matters, it isn’t a lie. 

“So which parent is the wizard?” Raith asks when I’m done speaking.

I could and would have ignored any recriminations. The fact that they don’t come is reassuring. 

“Neither.”

“So was this a dead end?” Dresden asks. “Or did they hire someone?”

“Is there anyone to hire?” She would know better than I. 

Dresden shakes her head. “I would have heard if anyone with the juice to pull this off was in Chicago. I’m the only one, unless McCoy’s still around, and I doubt he makes a habit of ripping people’s hearts out.”

“He might,” Raith mutters. I elect to ignore him. 

“I’ll set up surveillance on the two of them. In the meantime, you two get some sleep.” Hendricks parks the limo in front of their apartment building. 

“Sir, yes sir,” Raith says, snapping off a salute. Dresden rolls her eyes at him with the ease of familiarity and follows Raith out of the vehicle. 

I receive a phone call from Raith at nine o’clock that night. 

“This is John Marcone.”

“Hey.” Raith clears his throat. “Good news is, Harry figured out how whoever it is is doing it. They’re using the storms.”

Progress, at long last. “Interesting. I assume that takes significant power?”

“Yeah. Harry passed out after she did it.”

I know I’ll regret asking even as I do. “And why was Ms. Dresden channeling the power of a thunderstorm?” Hendricks raises an eyebrow. I put on speakerphone.

“There was a demon sent after us.”

I process that. “I assumed such things were fictitious.”

“Yeah.” Raith laughs, a little hysterically. “Join the club.”

“Are you both all right?”

“Yeah, about that. That’s the bad news.”

“Are you or Dresden injured?”

“No. Just in jail again.”

“Of course you are. On what charges?” 

“They haven’t said, although they might be charging Harry with public indecency?”

Well. That is rather unexpected. “I see.”

“She was in the shower,” Raith elaborates. “When it attacked.”

Oh. 

A naked Harry Dresden, wielding the forces of creation…

That’s quite the image. 

Hendricks smirks at me. I pointedly ignore him. “I’ll have my lawyers bail you out,” I inform Raith.

“One other thing,” Raith says, before I can hang up.

“Yes?”

“You touch Harry, I’ll rip your fucking intestines out. She might be oblivious, but I’m not, and if you even _try_ to--”

My response is, I know, unwise. This man shares Dresden’s bed and, by all appearances, her life. Nevertheless, I say, “Mr. Raith, I can assure you, I have no intention of doing anything she does not beg for.”

I hang up before he can respond. 

Hendricks’ smirk intensifies. 

“Oh, shut up, Nathan.”


	6. Chapter Six: Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just read Storm Front a few days ago? Yes. Do I remember for the life of me the finer details? No.  
> Also: do I have pages of angsty smut written for this fic? Yes. Do I know for the life of me where it goes? No.  
> *clears throat* anyways. I thought it was about time we heard from Thomas. Not real happy with this chapter, but here ya go.  
> 

At least they’ve kept Harry and I together, this time. That’s not as comforting as it should be, because I need to feed. I can feel it in the pulsing edges around my thoughts, in the pain of the demon-inflicted injuries that aren’t healing like they should be. 

Harry can tell. She’s shooting me glances that aren’t quite nervous-- or that’s how I’m choosing to interpret her looks, anyway. 

She knows I’d never feed on her if I was in my right mind.

She also knows that if I get hungry enough, I won’t be in my right mind. 

I won’t let it get that far. I’ll feed off fucking Marcone before I feed off my own sister. 

I am not my father. 

I press my back to the cell wall and focus on my breathing. 

The protective anger burning in my stomach doesn’t help. I try to exhale it away. 

I’ll kill Marcone if he touches Harry. Now he knows that. 

_Inhale._

_Exhale_.

When Gentleman Johnny’s lawyers spring us, there’s a car waiting for us. Harry and I get in without asking. 

One of these days, we’re going to walk right into a kidnapper’s car out of sheer force of habit. 

“We’re going to speak with the Beckitts,” Marcone informs us as his pet Yeti pulls away from the curb. He doesn’t bother to turn his head. “They’ve been spending time at the house of someone named Victor Sells-- do either of you know him?”

Harry and I shake our heads. 

“I thought as much.”

It’s a long drive, made longer by my demon’s discontented rumbling in the back of my head. 

When we turn down a long road by the lake, all my sexy spidey-senses start tingling. I can tell that it’s focused on one house in particular. I nudge Harry and point. She glances at me, then stares at the house. Her eyes go unfocused before she comes back to herself with a shudder. 

“What is it?” Marcone asks. Of course the bastard doesn’t miss a thing. 

“That house is… rotten,” Harry says haltingly. “It’s impossible to explain, but--”

“Something that would make the White Court very happy has happened, or is happening, there,” I say. “Put it that way.”

Hendricks parks on the side of the road, just out of sight of the house. 

He says, “Guns are in the trunk.”

“Of course they are,” Harry mutters. 

My sister goes for the oldest gun in the virtual armory in the car’s trunk, a Colt. I pull out a machine gun and hoist it one-handed. Hendricks raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Harry eyes me, her mouth curled, but eventually follows Hendricks’ example.

I’m pushing it, and I know it. So does she. 

It’s a comfort to know she can throw me a thousand feet across the lake if I lose control. 

Or she could just do what she did to my father. I’m pretty sure my arms would grow back eventually. 

Hendricks takes the lead. I go behind him before Harry can. She scowls at me and elects to go behind Marcone. 

Gotta protect the man who owns us, I suppose. She’d be insufferable if we had to go to the fae after all this.

Marcone, for his part, doesn’t look like a man who needs to be protected. He’s dressed in what looks like black combat fatigues, he’s got his usual pistol under his arm, a Ka-Bar on his thigh, and a rifle in both hands. 

I wonder how long Lara will take to give up on getting him in bed with her. 

I have to wonder why he’s here, though, considering his resources. Why would Gentleman Johnny himself come out with the cannon fodder?

Marcone lopes off into the underbrush about a hundred feet away from the house. Harry moves to follow, but Hendricks grabs her arm. 

“Boss’ll cover us,” he says. 

Harry looks him dead in the eyes and says, “Let go of me.”

He does.

Good. I’d hate to have to kill our boss’ guard dog. 

The house feels like Chateau du Raith-- hungry. 

I don’t mind letting Hendricks take point. 

He kicks down the door. There’s a shriek from further inside the house. 

I allow my demon to surge to the forefront, trusting Harry to keep me away from anyone who doesn’t need killing. 

I come to bleeding in the back of Marcone’s car. Harry’s hands are keeping my guts in and she’s swearing in a constant stream. 

“You _motherfucker_ , Thomas, I swear to God I’m gonna fucking--”

“Ow,” I manage. “What…?”

“You decided to fight a demon, that’s what, you moron.”

“Oh.” I think about that. It’s hard. “Why’d I do that?”

“Because you’re a fucking idiot.”

The car takes a hard turn and I scream, real manly-like. 

Harry flinches. 

My sister never flinches. 

_Prey,_ my demon hisses. 

“Drive faster,” Harry barks at Hendricks. 

“I drive any faster, we end up wrapped around a tree,” Hendricks says. “There’s a whore waiting at the closest safe house. Just keep him alive until we get there.”

Harry presses down harder. I try not to scream again and only somewhat succeed. 

The rest of the drive is a blur of pain. Then there’s more pain as Hendricks gets me upright.

Then there’s a bed, and a warm body, and my demon takes over again. 

I wake up in a bloody bed with my sister watching me warily from a chair beside my bed. 

I always feel like I should be exhausted, after I nearly die. I feel like I should be in pain or something.

Instead, I just feel good. 

I sit up as the realization hits. “Did I kill her?”

Harry’s eyes are distant. “I didn’t let you.”

“Good.” I swallow. I know how hard it hits her, to deal with me feeding. I don’t thank her. “That’s… That’s good.”

She nods. “Yeah. You know what would be better? If you hadn’t let yourself get that hungry.”

“I didn’t really have a choice. Not much time between jail and the house.”

“You could have _not fought a demon_ ,” she snaps. “You could have let me take care of it. Or, I don’t know, you could have fed before then, instead of ignoring it like you always do.”

It’s an old argument, and I know she’s right. She might not know what it’s like, but she’s right.

“So what happened?” I ask, instead of acknowledging her victory. She allows the subject change. 

“Sells summoned the demon again. It went after Hendricks. You went after it. By the time I freed it, it had ripped you open.” 

I glance down at my bare torso. I can still feel Harry’s hands holding me together.

There’s not even a scar. 

It feels like there should be. 

“What about the Beckitts?” I prompt Harry.

“Oh. The wife shot me. Marcone shot her. The husband burned to death, or so we’re presuming, along with the materials to make ThirdEye.”

I scramble out of bed, not caring about my state of undress, or the mention of a fire, or anything but: “You got shot?”

“Just my hip.” Harry waves off my concerns. She’s angry with me. I can’t blame her. “Get dressed. I want to go back to the apartment.”

Marcone is gone, but Hendricks is there to drive us back to the apartment.

Harry gets out of the car first, limping. Hendricks says, “Wait,” before I can follow her.

I pause with my hand on the door handle. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.” It sounds like it’s physically painful for him to say it.

I nod and get out to help my dumbass sister before she falls over. 

He owes me, now. And that’s as good as anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, and I love hearing from y'all.


	7. Chapter Seven: John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claim: John Marcone is a former Catholic and therefore a dramatic son of a bitch.  
> Source(s): I am a former Catholic and therefore a dramatic son of a bitch.  
> Hopefully I got Lara's voice right. She's tricky.

Hendricks tracks me down after a day of radio silence, just as I knew he would. He pushes into the safehouse living room at two am. I have a gun on him when he enters the room, of course-- I haven’t survived this long by assuming intruders are my people.

After a pause where he evaluates me critically, I flick the safety on and place my gun on the coffee table beside the glass of bourbon there.

“You had to do it,” Hendricks says with no preamble. “She would have killed Dresden.”

“I know.”

“So stop sulking. Lara Raith requested a meeting, and I scheduled it for noon today. You’re going.”

“You scheduled a meeting with the Raiths without consulting me?”

“Someone had to,” Hendricks says, unapologetically. “Considering that we really don’t want to piss them off and you weren’t answering your damn phone.”

I want to be angry. I want to have a target. I want someone to blame besides myself for the ruin that I brought upon the Beckitt family. 

I want-- I _need_ \-- 

I don’t know. Something that I don’t have words for. Not control, and not surcease, and not even Chicago, but something similar. 

Absolution, perhaps.

But then, men like me should know better.

I inhale for five seconds, hold my breath for five seconds, exhale for five seconds, hold my breath for five seconds. Hendricks watches with no expression. 

“Thank you, Nathan,” I say at last. “If you could drive me home, that would be appreciated. I could use some sleep.”

The only man I trust nods. 

I wake up at six am, as I generally do. With the bourbon in my system replaced with coffee, it’s much easier to think. 

I don’t generally drink. It’s too much of a loss of control. But killing Helen Beckitt had reminded me a little too much of seeing a child bleed out under a blue sky on the shores of Lake Michigan. 

I pour another cup of coffee for myself (black) and prepare a cup for Hendricks (splash of half and half) just as he stumbles into the room. 

Hendricks, for all his useful attributes, is not a morning person.

I wait until he’s drunk some of his coffee to say, “I think Dresden and Raith should be in the meeting.”

Hendricks puts his cup down. “I agree.”

“Ah-- right. Of course you do.”

He snorts. “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t. But White Court vamps? I don’t know if I trust most of our usual backup. Hell, I don’t know if I trust us. Raith at least should be immune.”

“And Dresden?”

He shrugs. “She fried their leader, right? She’s gotta have some resistance to it.”

“True.” That was more or less why I had wanted to have the two in the room. “I also would rather not tell Dresden or Raith that we met their former masters without them, as I value my intestines.”

He nods and picks up his coffee once more. 

Dresden is limping when we pick her and Raith up, but she’s moving far better than I would have expected. I’ll have to look into wizards’ healing capacity. It’s always good to know what it would take to kill those who work for you. 

Hendricks set the meeting place at my office, which, considering the options, was not a bad choice. When we arrive at the top floor, Valerie is sitting behind her desk shivering. Her face is flushed, her hair disarrayed. It’s a marked departure from her usual cool equanimity.

Raith inhales sharply, his eyes shifting ever so slightly silver. “She’s waiting for us.”

“Ms. Smith?” I ask. “Are you all right?”

She nods a few times. “Ah, Mr. Marcone, you-- you have visitors.”

“Thank you, Valerie. Please feel free to take the day off.” 

My secretary practically sprints out of the room. Dresden shifts to let her by with a wince, leaning her weight on her staff.

I have other priorities.

“If you hurt one of my people,” I say, striding into my office, “then this meeting will not go well for you.”

When I see the creature waiting for us, my stride nearly falters. I continue walking through sheer force of will. 

The most beautiful woman I have ever seen is seated in my office chair. The skirt of her white business suit is an inch shorter than I would expect from such an outfit, revealing perfectly toned legs with just a touch of thigh. Her blouse is just transparent enough to reveal her lack of anything beneath it. Her lips are slightly parted and redder than sin.

I make it to my desk and sit down, feigning nonchalance with all my might. Hendricks takes up his post in the corner. Dresden and Raith remain standing near the door. 

“How chivalrous,” the creature in my office says. “I did nothing to her, Mr. Marcone. I can hardly help how humans react to me.”

She uncrosses her legs and crosses them again. I resist the urge to shift as my pants grow tighter. 

“Then we may discuss why you are here-- you are Ms. Raith, I presume?”

“Lara. Please.” She practically purrs out the second word.

I want to hear that from her in a different context. One with significantly less clothing and distance between us. 

I want to make her scream my name. I want to make her beg for my touch. I want to--

“Kindly cease trying to enthrall me, Lara,” I tell her. “Else I must insist you leave.”

She tilts her head, but the urge to fall to my knees and worship her fades away. “Impressive, Mr. Marcone.”

I don’t tell her to call me John. “Why are you here?”

“You have something which belongs to me.”

“One,” Dresden says, the runes on her staff glowing faintly, “We’re people, not things. Two, we belong to Marcone, now. And three, shouldn’t your lovely father be saying that?”

And this is why I hesitated to invite Dresden and Raith to this meeting. 

Lara Raith’s lips curl upwards. “I have so missed your attempts at wit, Harriet.”

“Don’t call me that.” There’s something raw there, something Dresden’s trying to hide under the flash of anger. I tuck this new sore point of hers away to examine later. 

“Then don’t interrupt,” Lara Raith returns. “Your owners are speaking.”

I find the term… distasteful. I speak before I can consider why.

“Mr. Raith and Ms. Dresden are in my employ. And, unless I have overlooked something, they were never legally under yours or your father’s. Therefore, I rather fail to see why you are here.”

“We don’t play by the laws, Mr. Marcone. If you’re going to try to play with us, you need to learn that.”

“You may not play by the laws, but Ms. Dresden and Mr. Raith certainly do. And so does Chicago.”

“Chicago isn’t yours to claim., Mr. Marcone.”

I smile. “Isn’t it?”

I let the silence hover for a moment. Then I inquire, “Why are you here and not your father?”

“My father has higher priorities than a couple of runaways.”

“Or,” Dresden says, “Your father is... indisposed, and you’re here because you owe us.”

“Ms. Raith, you can be assured of our silence,” I say. “But, in exchange, I must ask that you allow Ms. Dresden and Mr. Raith to remain under my protection, uncontested.”

She smiles once more and stands. “This has been most illuminating, Mr. Marcone. Thank you for your time.”

We shake hands. Her skin is cool and soft. I look her dead in the eyes and think of the way Helen Beckitt had looked through my scope. 

She leaves without another word. 

Hendricks begins to speak, but Raith holds up a hand. We wait as he appears to listen. 

“She’s gone,” he says after a tense handful of seconds. 

“Great,” Dresden says. “So, we’re all in agreement that that wasn’t the end of things?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Great,” she says a second time. Then she lurches forward and throws up in my trash can. 


	8. Chapter Eight: Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most, if not all, of the warnings come into play this chapter, so please heed them and feel free to ask if you have any questions. Additional content warning for a panic attack.  
> Fun fact: the five second box breathing Marcone uses is an actual Navy SEAL technique. Some people do four seconds, but I prefer five, so.  
> The t-shirt Harry wears is not my idea. Nobody sue me, please.  
> (Just, like, in general.)

I’m not sure what it is that breaks me, that makes the nausea surge uncontrollably. Maybe it’s the pain in my hip, maybe it’s the threat of being dragged back, maybe it’s the way I’m just something people own. It could be all or none of them. But I think it’s the fact that I can feel how wet and achingly empty I am from Lara’s little performance. 

She was my only ally in Chateau du Raith, besides Thomas. She’s as close to a sister as I have. She wasn’t always gentle-- the opposite, in fact-- but she had taught me how to survive. She had taught me everything: what her father liked to do, how to make him--

I retch again. Thomas hisses in what’s either disgust or sympathy and takes a step closer, hovering protectively. He doesn’t touch me, though. He knows better. 

I haven’t had White Court power aimed at me like that since the last time Lord Raith came into my room and I--

I’m having a panic attack, I realize distantly as I fall to my knees and my hip screams. Wonderful. Marcone just faced down Lara Raith for my brother and I and I’m falling apart in front of him and his favorite goon.

And I’m still fucking wet. Somehow I can’t get over that part. 

“Ms. Dresden,” Marcone says. I can barely hear him over the buzzing in my ears. “Do you require medical attention?”

“Fuck off, Marcone,” Thomas says.

“I was speaking to Ms. Dresden, not you, Mr. Raith.”

“She’s fine.”

I want to laugh, but I’m too busy trying not to pass out. 

Marcone crouches down beside me, ignoring Thomas’ warning growl. “Ms. Dresden? Do get a hold of yourself.”

“Helpful,” I manage to gasp out. 

“Aren’t I just? Listen to me. That’s an order.”

I nod. 

“Inhale for five seconds. One, two, three, four, five. Now hold your breath for five seconds--”

“How is that going to--”

He cuts me off. “Do it.”

I listen to the whipcrack order on instinct. He counts down.

“Now exhale for five. One, two, three, four, five. Now hold for five. One, two, three, four, five. Now inhale…”

He talks me through I don’t know how many cycles of this. When I can breathe on my own again, he stands up and sits behind his desk again. 

“Take the day off, Dresden. You too, Raith. I’ll have work for you tomorrow. We’ll begin with warding this floor.”

I get to my feet with the help of my staff. My hip is on fire, but I can’t make myself accept Thomas’ offered arm. The thought of touching someone right now threatens to send me back onto my knees.

I can’t make myself thank Marcone out loud, but I nod at him once before turning and limping out of the room. 

The minion I nicknamed Spike drives us home. His eyes flicker to us in the backseat, but he doesn’t say anything the whole trip. 

Thomas hits the elevator button before I can start up the stairs. I decide not to argue. My hip is sending throbs of agony through the entire left side of my body.

I don’t like painkillers. 

I feel better once we’re behind the wards. Even Lara would have a hard time getting through them. 

“Take a shower,” Thomas suggests. He’s gone from concerned to angry. I’m not sure who he’s angry with. 

He’s always angry with someone, these days. We’ve got that, a mother, and Chateau du Raith in common. It’s enough to keep us together.

I take a shower. Or, rather, I get into the shower, turn up the water as hot as it goes, curl up on the shower floor, and try to erase the memories of God knows how many nights spent under Lord Raith’s influence. Under his hands. Under his body. 

It started when I was twelve. It ended, very fucking decisively, when I was twenty-five.

I’m going to pretend like hell that this shower can wash thirteen years of Raith away.

When I get out of the shower, Thomas is waiting on my bed. He has a wad of bandages and gauze. 

“Towel off,” he says. 

For a moment, he sounds just like his father had. Lord Raith liked to catch me right out of the shower. Liked to lick the water off my breasts. Liked to tell me how good I felt, heat-flushed and loose. 

Thomas catches my flinch. I’m out of practice hiding things from him. 

“Shit.” Thomas scrubs a hand over his face. “ _Shit._ Just-- I need to look at your hip.”

Right.

It’s not a big deal, being this vulnerable in front of Thomas. He’s seen me in worse shape; I’ve seen him in worse shape. We grew up together in the White Court, after all. Half the time I was the one who kept him from killing the people he fed from; half the time he was the one who got me into the shower and into clothes after his father or Justin visited. 

It’s not a big deal, so I move the towel to bare my left hip, sit down, and definitely don’t flinch again as he starts placing gauze on my hip. Thomas doesn’t comment, just bandages me up with the ease of long practice. 

Like I said. Justin was a good teacher.

Thomas hesitates in the doorway. “You okay?”

“Fucking wonderful.”

He nods. “I’ll make some food.”

“I’m not a fucking invalid,” I snap.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You’re treating me like one.”

“You puked your guts out and had a panic attack in front of the man who technically owns us, forgive me for being worried.”

He slams the door behind him. I swallow down a wordless scream and limp over to my dresser. 

We went out and bought clothes the first day we were here, which means that I have a few pairs of baggy jeans and some t-shirts that make Thomas look like he’s bitten into a lemon. I select a shirt that reads MORDOR FUN RUN and drag it over my head. 

When I’m dressed, I chance a look in the mirror on the back of the door. 

The woman in the mirror is pale. The hollows beneath her eyes are nearly purple. She looks exactly like someone who would have a breakdown in front of her boss for no good reason.

I flip her off and leave the room.

Thomas microwaved chicken soup. I throw the can at his head. He catches it with an insufferable smirk. 

Just like that, we’re back to normal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's instinct to obey Marcone just kind of happened, but that could be interesting. Hmm...  
> Thanks for reading, feedback feeds the muses, etc.


	9. Chapter Nine: John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just marathoned Supernatural and I have a final project due Monday; have a short, smutty chapter. Next chapter will be the beginning of this AU's Fool Moon, but I need to reread the book first, so it might be a few days.

“She’s a liability,” Hendricks says once the office door is closed behind Raith and Dresden.

I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t think anyone with that much power is--”

“John, if I’d just had a breakdown like that, we’d be having a serious conversation about my future employment with you.”

“Yes,” I say. “But I would never let you leave said employment.”

“Because I know too much, yeah. What’s your excuse with Dresden?”

I exhale through my nose. “Because you’re useful, you idiot.”

That’s what I told him when he asked why I went back for him, fifteen years and a thousand bullets ago in a part of the world we weren’t supposed to be in.

He remembers. His face softens a little. “Right. You’re dodging the question, though. Why haven’t you dropped Dresden yet?”

There are several answers I should give: _We don’t want Dresden and Raith as enemies. We’ve gone too far to turn back now. If I can properly harness Dresden’s power, our enemies would never dare to touch us again._ All of them would even be true.

I don’t lie to Hendricks, though, so I say, “I killed Helen Beckitt for her. I’ve seen her soul.”

He nods. “You’re not just thinking with your mob boss dick, are you?”

“Unfortunately not.” I meet his eyes levelly. “I’ll deal with it.”

He doesn’t acknowledge me. “See, I don’t think you’d talk just anyone through a breakdown like that, though. Maybe you’d do that for me. But not some stranger you just want to fuck.”

“What are you implying?” If my voice is noticeably cool, it doesn’t phase Hendricks.

“Get her out of your system, John. You know we can’t afford you to be distracted, especially not now that we’ve pissed off the White Court.”

“I’m not distracted.”

“Really? I had a gun on Raith when you were talking Dresden down because of how on edge he was. Did you notice?”

I hadn’t. He reads my face.

“I didn’t think so. Get her out of your system before she gets you killed.”

“Your point has been taken.” My tone is mild, but Hendricks heeds the warning in it.

I think about summoning the prostitute who looks somewhat like Dresden that night. It’s been a while for me, and all reports indicate that she’s good at her job.

In the end, though, I decide it’s a vulnerability I can’t afford. So instead, I strip, step into my shower, and take my cock into my hand.

Dresden would be loud, I decide. God knows she’s had no reservations about being vocal outside of the bedroom. She’d probably try to stay quiet out of principle, but if I got my mouth on her just right, Dresden would forget about that.

She’d be stubborn as hell, I’m sure. Would make me figure out what she likes instead of telling me. Would make me work for those moans I’m certain I could make spill out of her mouth.

Dresden would be all hard angles under my eyes, all soft skin beneath my hands. The way she’d been dressed when she’d come into my office had told me that much. I would mouth over the ridges of her collarbone before sucking one of her nipples into my mouth, would stroke the bite mark scar on the top of her left breast until she stopped flinching away from it.

And by the time I got to her clit, she’d be soaking wet and begging for me to be inside of her.

All that power, all that anger, all that strength that I’d seen in her, laid bare for me, under my control--

I come with a strangled groan.

Hendricks may have had a point.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm the same anon as the author of the "Best Burned" series, so if you enjoy this fic, you might like that one.  
> Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, and I love hearing from y'all!


End file.
